Page 45 of Resisting Isaac

“No,” I lie, eyes fixed on his hands as they move over the controls with the same kind of reverent confidence he uses when saddling a horse… or touching me.

He’s not the reckless cowboy I met that first night, even if he still carries that untamed edge in his smile. When he flies, he’s focused. Methodical. Every move is precise.

And God help me, it’s sexy as hell.

The takeoff steals my breath the same way it does when Ifly commercial for work, though it’s less intense. The plane hums beneath us, smooth and steady, but my fingers are clenched so tightly around the armrests I suspect I’ll leave marks.

I’m trying not to be obvious about it. Trying not to let Isaac see how my stomach coils every time we tilt, how the view of jagged cliffs and open sky outside the window makes my stomach tighten and my pulse race.

He’s whistling quietly. Aviators covering his eyes, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, seat leaned back farther than someone keeping us suspended in air should be. He might as well be lounging on a porch swing instead of flying a damn aircraft for how relaxed he is.

Meanwhile, I’ve chewed the inside of my mouth to pieces.

“You good, superstar?” His voice floats through the static in my ears, rich and easy, laced with a smile I don’t turn my head to see.

“Totally,” I lie, staring straight ahead. “Just…absorbing the view.”

“Absorbing it like you might pass out?” he teases gently, one hand flicking switches while the other rests casually on the yoke.

“I fly all the time for work. This is nothing.”

He side-eyes me. “Yeah? Then how come you’re white-knuckling that seat like it insulted you?”

I grit my teeth and peel my fingers off the armrest, shaking out my hands. I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “Maybe I was just testing out the upholstery. Very sturdy.”

He doesn’t press, just reaches over, calm and sure, and flips a switch. The plane dips slightly and I go rigid again, bracing for…I don’t know. A crash? A nosedive? Imminent death?

“Elena.” His tone softens. “You trust me, right?”

Do I trust him? “I barely trust myself most days.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Fair enough. I get it. But let me show you something.”

Before I can protest, he shifts in his seat and guides my hand over the controls. My pulse skips and I’m instantly light-headed.

“I’m not—Isaac, I can’t?—”

“Sure, you can,” he says, wrapping his fingers around mine. “You’re one of the toughest women I’ve ever met. You do Krav Maga at the crack of dawn. You run lines while running five miles and shadow boxing. You can fly this plane.”

I didn’t realize he’d paid so much attention to my daily activities. But then I suppose he knows most of what goes on at his family’s ranch.

“Okay, stalker. Well, none of those things require months of training and a license.”

“You’re not flying alone. I’m right here.”

His words calm me a tiny bit. So does the way he keeps his hand on mine, warm and steady. He adjusts my grip on the yoke, nudging gently, guiding as we level out again.

“See?” he murmurs. “You’re not falling. You’re flying.”

The panic eases, just a little. Enough that I can breathe.

Below us, the Montana wilderness stretches wide and endless, shadowed in evergreen and dusted gold where the sunlight kisses the peaks.

“You ever let anyone else touch these controls?” I ask, voice quieter now.

“Absolutely not.” He turns to me then. “But you had that look, the one you get when you’re trying to hide how close you are to freaking out. Had to do something before you broke your jaw from clenching it.”

My lips twitch. “You know my looks now?”